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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673679">Bang</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjacketcoolcat/pseuds/jeanjacketcoolcat'>jeanjacketcoolcat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Prostitution</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:35:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673679</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjacketcoolcat/pseuds/jeanjacketcoolcat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a series of one-shots in the batman universe shamelessly featuring OFC's. Really a bit of fantasy fun. Warnings will be included in the notes at the beginning of each chapter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Wayne/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bang</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Bruce Wayne and a prostitute OFC.<br/>TW: sexual assault alluded to/mentioned.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's not Pretty Woman, even though he calls you one, or Maid in Manhattan, or Cinderella or whatever other cadre of rags to riches, pauper to princess story you might think. It's just a moment in time that turned into moments and that's all it'll ever be. It could never be anything else and even now, you're sure you don't want it to be.</p><p>It started on Monday night at a club, which is usually for hard partiers and petty socialites with nothing better to do than blow daddy's money on the newest designer drug to hit the club scene and enough of an entourage to make it interesting. Queue entourage.</p><p>Hetty is a sultry little piece of Old Hollywood glamour and often gets the older gentlemen with mommy issues as she gives off very distinct dominatrix vibes.</p><p>Genevieve is a french 'retired' model who can identify any pill down to the manufacturer. She gets a mixed bag of clientele but all of them youthful, adventurous and ready to play.</p><p>Ana is a russian model, also retired, (funny how that works) who can drink any living being under the table without batting an eyelash. She tends to get the more traditional type of John and is unflappable no matter the request.</p><p>All of you are Madame Sylvie's girls. She's considered the best of the best, the creme de la creme a la Sylvie and most clubs, restaurants and hotels are aware of your presence and let you be. From the Gotham Grande to the Tapmaster, you are a staple and fixture of the day to day nightlife of Gotham's establishments. Men and to a lesser extent, women, of a certain calibre and class, require a very particular and discrete type of entertainment that you've opted to provide at a hefty expense.</p><p>You are the girl-next-door who caters almost exclusively in the girlfriend experience. Your regulars are usually shy, engineering types who are looking for comfort and stability. It helps that your looks are not intimidating and you somehow invite confidences that you haven't asked for. It's security that you peddle in and no one does it better than you. Ana is hard and fast and straightforward. Genevieve can be snide and judgmental with just that touch of Parisian snootiness that she hasn't yet managed to shake. Hetty is almost too beautiful for words. It's the kind of perfection that could cut glass and only gets the top tier of Sylvie's client base.</p><p>Be that as it may, Hetty does enjoy partying if only because performing is her true passion and the dancefloor is just another kind of stage to her.</p><p>That's what you're doing tonight: keeping Slyvie's profile high and appeasing Hetty's dance mania. <em>Faces</em> is the newest club opened just last week, located on the outskirts of the Gotham financial district with an interesting dual design overflowing with mirrors that looks almost like two separate people have been forced to crash their disparate designs together.</p><p>"Strange place." Ana remarks as you settle yourselves into a table reserved for Madame Sylvie's girls. You hum in affirmation. It is a bizarre sort of set up. No one knows who owns the place even though it's usually an open secret who owns which joint as the mafia and various other less than legal factions in Gotham are merciless and nothing's worse than being clueless. Madame Sylvie pays her dues diligently, scrupulously appeasing every ornery element of the Gotham scene so that she can make the enormous profit that she stands to gain in this market.</p><p>Gotham is a bit of a cesspit but in that cesspit one can stand to make a serious bit of cold, hard, cash. And Madame Sylvie is <em>rolling</em> in it.</p><p>Your cut is not too bad. After 10% for commission and another additional 10% for security and then taxes on top of that, you're raking in a respectable sum that keeps you clothed and fed and your student loans at bay, on top of covering expenses for your upkeep to stay <em>in</em> this "profession".</p><p>Everyone's got their own story of how they got into the 'work'. It's sometimes tragic, often by circumstance and usually just a fact of life with little choice.</p><p>Hetty's only sitting to order her usual martini, her wrap and clutch tucked into the curve of the booth as there was no coatcheck despite the place being on the edge of the good part of town. Clearly not as upscale as it's marketed to be. Or maybe it's too new to have everything up and running as smoothly as you'd hoped for opening night. An old regular of Ana's finds you at your booth. He's somewhere fairly high up on the government bureaucratic totem pole and has a penchant for getting respectably drunk most weeknights to fend off the drudgery of pushing papers for a living and fielding off his wife's exacting demands every other minute. Ana helps him let loose is what she says anytime there's talk about clients and she looks so reasonably self-assured in this assessment that you find yourself alright with being left in the booth with him while Hetty drags Genevieve and Ana to the dancefloor; the bass pumping through the floor, the beat thrumming in your bones.</p><p>Of course this is when things take a turn for the not exactly worse but definitely distasteful. Ana's man gets...weird. He'd been pleasant with everyone at the table but the second you're alone, he gets way too close, right in your personal space, drapes an arm over your shoulders, and starts murmuring some disjointedly disturbing things in your ear, the alcohol in his breath crawling up your nose and making your eyes water at the scent.</p><p>You're not the type to make a scene and you had been drilled in the art of compliance when entering Sylvie's employ as part of her agency's onboarding procedures to the point that you have an ironclad control on your reactions. As such, you sit there, increasingly tense but not betraying that tension one bit as the words take on a worryingly violent bent and a hand snakes its way up your thigh. You're sure to get bruises from the way he's massaging it.</p><p>This is when Genevieve returns to the table with another group of girls in tow, friends from her modelling days, apparently, Bruce Wayne in their midst and a lovely bunch of salivating men at the stern. It's enough of an interruption that it gets the hand off your thigh and the arm off your shoulder, though he makes little space between you as the group squeezes into the booth and chairs are foraged from other parts. You grit your teeth and smile and Genevieve airily introduces you to the group and then promptly plops herself so close to Wayne that she might as well be sitting in his lap. You watch with the mildest of amusement as several of the girls looks sour at that and the expression of the girl on his other side turns positively poisonous.</p><p>Bruce Wayne holds court like a favoured jester performing tricks. Everything elicits a reaction that is disproportional to the words said or actions made and yet, it is never diminished. There is no self-consciousness in the effusiveness of the response; fame and wealth can really dismantle all barriers.</p><p>Everyone's laughing off Wayne's latest joke when the bureaucrat pressed into your side clamps a hand around your arm and drags you out. Genevieve barely bats an eyelash, her irises plastered on Wayne who doesn't have a hand on her as she tries to fuse herself to his side. You feel irritation crawling up your spine as the bureaucrat's hand drags you on a trajectory you are only the passenger to. There was an agreement made between the four of you, facilitated by Sylvie for security purposes and Genevieve is not following through on her part of it. You can't really fault her even though you should. In the face of a fish as big as Wayne, all petty allegiances and responsibilities can be thrown to the wayside in the pursuit of chasing his favour. He would bag Sylvie six figures and Genevieve a respectable cut of that sum.You can't begrudge her the hustle you've all learned to adapt in this 'industry'. But you can't help staring just that little bit longer, letting the fear and discomfort bleed through on the off-chance that Genevieve would look over and catch it and carry her end of your collective bargain. What you do catch instead, is the gaze of Wayne, for less than a second before the hand on your arm pulls enough that you're gone.</p><p>The bureaucrat has pushed you into a small alcove in a quiet hallway that leads to what you assume are the back offices and changing rooms of the place. Not as busy as the bathrooms and the kitchen and an ideal place for someone to get busy doing less than savoury things. Considering this is a club, anything less than savoury is truly something to be avoided when you have anything from snorting lines to blowjobs to actual hookups in the toilets. 'Establish boundaries and ensure payment' echoes in your head as the bureaucrat pushes your back against the alcove and pins your wrists above your head with one hand. "I have to tell you, Ana and I are at the same agency and it's the same rate." His response is to crush your wrists in his grip so that they grind painfully against each other and growl, "<em>Shut the fuck up, whore</em>."</p><p>You gulp, steel yourself and knee him in the groin hard enough that he curls over, groaning. You step past him, saying, "I told you it's the same rate. You know how this works."</p><p>He really should know better. Just as you'd sidled past him, you feel a hand tangling in your hair and squeak in surprise, pain and consternation when it <em>yanks</em>. You hadn't booked it like you should have and this is your own fault to some degree. Fights are never pretty, though you've been in your fair share of them. Hazards of the job. Hair is the worst thing for you. The bureaucrat's got you like a puppet on a string by your hair and all you're trying to do is mitigate the hits he's getting in while keeping the strands <em>attached </em>to your scalp.</p><p>Suddenly, the grip on your hair is gone. It's so abrupt that you have to take a moment to process its absence. Your next priority is to assess the scene and what meets your gaze is something so arresting that it simply does not compute. Bruce Wayne is standing in the corridor, the dim lighting casting shadows on his face as the bureaucrat lays curled on the floor, moaning quietly.</p><p>"Are you alright?" Bruce Wayne asks, voice a low, gravely baritone, nothing like the breezy, carrying bray he'd had at the table. You nod automatically even though your legs feel shaky and your head feels light, your vision swimming slightly as Bruce Wayne steps closer, hand outstretched.</p><p>You can't help it. Something about the way the shadows play across his face and obscure his eyes, the way the small hallway enhances his stature and makes his advancement feel more than anything like a looming assailant than a helpful rescuer has you backing away slightly, unable to hide your wide eyes and slight wince. He stops, freezes more like and you can't pinpoint exactly what changes, but something does. Enough that your shoulders relax and you can step forward and take the hand he'd offered which envelopes yours completely, its texture surprisingly tough for a billionaire who plays token CEO and hasn't done any labour ever in his life based on what you know about him, which is little. You're not one to pay attention to the tabloids or take much stock in what they do write seeing as you are intimately acquainted with the seedy underbelly of high society. You both freeze when bureaucrat on the floor pushes himself upright and skitters away back to the main club. Bruce Wayne follows his progress with an eagle eyed stare, placing himself firmly between you and the beaten man. Bruce Wayne only looks back down at you once the bureaucrat disappears and you take the opportunity to break the mounting awkwardness.</p><p>"Thank you." You tell him and he smiles. "It was no problem." Bruce Wayne answers lightly, charming as always. You catch him eyeing you critically, as you let go of his hand and make to right your dress. You feel a flush creeping up your cheeks when you realize you absolutely had a tit out (pasty-covered but still!) the entire time and Bruce Wayne had made zero comment on it.</p><p>"Are you sure you're alright?" He asks again, just a tinge of scepticism colouring his tone and you realize then that his look was one of evaluating concern rather than lascivious judgment.</p><p>"I'm perfectly fine," You respond, automatically soothing, your reflexive fallback and smile crookedly, trying to play things off lightly, "Nothing I couldn't handle."</p><p>"If you're sure..." He says and you dart a look up as you finish fixing the strap of your dress, seeing disbelief and concern written plain across his admittedly handsome face. And that's when you hear voices drifting from the door that leads to the back offices. Their words are crystal clear despite the separation of wood and plaster.</p><p>"<em>We've got twenty cases of the shipment and George negotiated with our backers to get the stuff moving</em>."</p><p>"<em>You're telling me he found buyers for 25 million dollar's worth of</em>--"</p><p>"<strong><em>Shhhh</em></strong>! <em>Can it! We don't <strong>ever</strong> say the name, capische</em>?"</p><p>"<em>Whaddaya mean we don't say the name? How do ya know which one you're movin' if you can't say what it is</em>?"</p><p>"<em>Comin' from big boss--dunno who's listenin' where. 'Specially here.</em>"</p><p>"<em>So what are we supposed to call it, then</em>?"</p><p>"<em>Lemonade</em>."</p><p>"<em>You're shittin' me</em>." The owner of the voice starts snickering.</p><p>"<em>Do I look like I'm shittin' you</em>?" His boss is clearly not. "<em>We got Lemonade, Gatorade, and Redbull. If any of the rich pricks asks what it is you just tell 'em it'll make 'em feel like fucking Superman</em>."</p><p>His friends snorts and asks, "<em>What's it really do</em>?"</p><p>"<em>Fucked if I know. Gets 'em hooked is all that really matters, ain't it</em>?"</p><p>"<em>So...you wanna try it</em>?"</p><p>"<strong><em>No</em></strong>!"</p><p>There's a brief, tense silence and then the boss answers, quiet enough that you can barely make it out unless you strain to hear it. "<em>Makes you feel good for a while...Works just like E only stronger and cleaner but then it makes you.....it's like cancer, Joe. Dylan snuck a taste last month and...he's dead. This one- you don't skim off the top, y'hear me</em>?"</p><p>"<em>I hear ya</em>."</p><p>They start moving around, the sounds getting louder and closer until you realize they're about to open the door and you're nowhere near far enough away to feign innocence. Your eyes latch onto Bruce Wayne's and in them you see the look you had aimed at Genevieve only to a lesser degree: muted discomfort and brazen calculation. You grab for his lapels just as he steps into your space, one hand cupping the back of your head and the other one sliding to your waist. His nose is in your hair and breath soft in the whorl of your ears as he whispers, "<em>Sorry for this. Can I kiss you</em>?" You nod, breathing out a soft "<em>Yes</em>," on the exhale that he catches as he follows with his lips on yours.</p><p>He slips a leg between yours, as you hear the door bang open and the men behind it stepping into the corridor. You let go of your grip on Bruce Wayne's lapels and instead snake one hand up to scratch and pull at the wisps on the nape of his neck. Your other hand snakes down to his belt and you place a yours lightly on the buckle as the footsteps get closer. You pull away from the kiss to breathlessly gasp "<em>Can I</em>--?" while he moves to immediately kiss your neck. You can feel a slight nod against your flushed skin and a hum of approval. Your fingers scramble against the metal buckle of the belt and Bruce Wayne's other hand slides away from your waist and down to cup your ass as you grip the back of his neck and tug and scratch until you're both kissing again. You moan something filthy and breathy and high and long and hear the footsteps stop. You get a little more exaggerated with your movements and a little more insistent with the belt buckle, finally managing to undo it, the button coming apart with greater ease, before you hear, "<em>Oi</em>!"</p><p>You let go of Bruce Wayne immediately and gasp loudly, for the benefit of your audience. Joe and Boss are two burly men wearing delivery uniforms without name-tags or any actually defining insignia on them at all. A cursory look at them would identify them as deliverymen by the shape and colour of their outfits but it would not identify them as belonging to any company in particular. A clever illusion that you think is more than probably intentional.</p><p>"You can't be doing that here." Boss says, smirk dancing around his lips while Joe blushes slightly as he takes in your rumpled state, pastied tit out <em>again</em>, drat it. You cover it slowly, making sure to breathe heavily, not having to act that much, as a result of how breathless Bruce Wayne's admittedly swoon-worthy kissing had been.</p><p>"Apologies, gentlemen. If you wouldn't mind moving along, we'll be out of here soon." Bruce Wayne's voice is dripping with insinuation and confident command, all while he shamelessly does nothing to conceal his undone belt and trousers.</p><p>"Sir, you can't be here." Boss says, tone losing its humour as he takes a step forward.</p><p>Bruce Wayne doesn't budge an inch, only sighing in clear irritation and reaching into his jacket to pull out an absolutely <em>stuffed</em> billfold.</p><p>"How much will it take?" He asks laconically, boredom infusing every syllable though you're sure he hasn't missed the way the two 'deliverymen' go tense as anything, their hands twitching behind their backs, like they're reaching for a weapon. You reach a hand out then, putting it on Bruce Wayne's arm and saying, placatory and enticing, "It's okay, babe. We can have just as much fun somewhere else."</p><p>He looks at you then and you can feel something shift in him. "Sweetheart, if these two chums won't let us finish what we started, then I'm sure I can put a word in with the owner about how terrible the customer service is here."</p><p>You feel like like cold gel is seeping down your spine, icky and gooey and gross. But you recognize who this is and you know that this is a bribe and a front and protection all rolled into one. So you feed it.</p><p>"It <em>is</em> kinda rude to interrupt..." you start slowly, letting yourself be swayed. "...and we're not doing anything illegal. Just...having a good time." At this you leer at him and stroke a hand down your torso suggestively, with the pretense of smoothing down your dress. You can see Joe following your hand's trajectory and watch his Adam's apple bob when you let it fall by your side.</p><p>"Now listen here, this area is out of bounds--" Boss remonstrates officiously, not hiding his irritation in the least but remaining somewhat reasonable. He's cut off by Joe who says simultaneously, "Well, we can let it go this time, but--"</p><p>Bruce Wayne takes this opportunity and runs with it, exclaiming crisply, "Excellent!" He steps forward, pulling a generous handful of bills out of the billfold and holding them out to the 'deliverymen' "For your wonderful service."</p><p>"Hey now--!" Boss interjects, agitation and affront rolling off him in waves before Bruce steps even closer and tuck the bills into the front pocket of his uniform, before pulling another handful of bills out and handing them to Joe, who thankfully takes them without complaint. Boss's eyes are locked on the billfold, close enough that he can see the denominations within when Bruce hands them over. You can see him tracking the exchange and you're almost completely sure it's this which stops his protest. Money is a greater lubricant than drugs and alcohol, you can certainly attest to that.</p><p>Joe nods at Bruce, saying obsequiously, tone droll, "Have a pleasant night at <em>Faces</em>, sir." He jerks his head at Boss before the two of them walk off, Joe not so subtly counting his wad of cash and murmuring appreciatively.</p><p>Bruce Wayne takes this opportunity to redo his trousers and belt before running a hand through his hair as he turns to face you.</p><p>"Are you having a look, then?" You ask him, tipping your head at the doors clearly marked with "Employee Only" signs on them. He gives you an evaluating once over and you try not to react to it. You don't know what criteria you've passed or not passed merit with when he only says, "It would be foolish to break rules we've just had clearly defined for us."</p><p>"Two horny partiers are better than one snooping socialite." You respond with a crooked smile and watch him smile in return, almost like he it was against his will. "Come on, I want to see if it really is Gatorade."</p><p>Bruce Wayne's stance and posture shifts noticeably and he steps forward, right in front of your own path towards the doors so that you're following him instead of vice versa. "Stay behind me," He instructs quietly, tone implacable and expression dead serious. You're used to following instructions so you nod as he leans his back against the door and pushes it slowly open the tiniest of cracks as he peers through.</p>
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